The Model Spy

Chapter 2 - An Almost Vacation

He knelt down and picked it up. He held it in his fingers and floated it in front of Ms. Knauff's pointed nose. "I apologize that I wasn't aware of ordinary procedures in you school," he said. "I promise you it won't happen again." He gently set the pencil on her desk before taking a step back and clasping his hands behind him. "I'm sincerely sorry," Fred paused for only a moment so he could read the secretary's first name off of the brass nameplate hovering on the edge of her desk, "Staysi."

Ms. Knauff still wasn't looking up, but I could see a pink glow spreading across her sharp cheekbones. She shuffled more papers around aimlessly before pulling a bright yellow one from a messy stack. "Just sign and date this, if you will." She pushed the paper towards Fred, who scrawled his name hurriedly on the dotted line. "And next time she needs to get picked up, Miss Porter needs a written excuse from a legal guardian."

"Come on Uncle Fred," I said. "We can't be late." I pulled him out of the office by his sleeve. When I looked over my shoulder, Ms. Knauff already had her face buried in one of those gossip magazines.

Fred and I walked out of the high school's front doors. "You're improving," he said. I knew he meant my lying skills. Being a good liar was probably one of the most important assets a spy could have. And, of course, it was something I always struggled with. A normal person, like Ms. Knauff might not ever know I was a liar. But to an international criminal, there were certain tells that guaranteed death. "But before you used to stumble over what you were saying," Fred continued, "Now you are talking too fast. It still seems suspicious. You have to talk as if you are stating any ordinary fact."

All around the school's parking lot sat boys and girls who had decided to skip the last hour or two of classes. They sat on the curb in groups or on the hoods of cars in pairs. I swore I heard Fred mumble something about juvenile delinquents when we neared his pristine black convertible and saw a group of boys eyeing the car with interest. I had to admit, it was a pretty sweet car. When on a deserted road, Fred could make it go 200mph. Sadly, he couldn't do it on the popular Pacific Coast Highway. Our offices were just down the scenic stretch, twenty minutes away.

"I must admit," Fred unlocked the car with a click of his keys, "that was a risky tale you spun about your plastic surgeon. Personally, I would have gone with something much safer, like-"

"A doctor's visit or a dental cleaning?" I asked as a slid myself into the leather passenger seat. "I know you have been out of high school for about seventy years," I said sarcastically, "so you may not know that those are the most clichéd lies in the entire book."

Fred frowned as he turned the keys in the ignition. I barely had time to buckle myself in before the car zoomed out of the parking lot, much to the amusement of the boys nearby. They whooped and hollered after us.

"And this is LA. Everyone has a plastic surgeon. Even you." I had seen the phone number in the little black book he kept in his office desk. Doctor Carlisle's, a renowned plastic surgeon to the celebrities, number was penned in the space right above the cell number for Hillary Clinton.

I laughed, but Fred was still frowning and suddenly there was a tiny pain in the pit of my stomach. Fred hadn't told me why he was pulling me out of school. I thought of my parents, alone in Brazil with a maniac. What if something had happened to them?